Chapter 1 #2
It was over in mere seconds. Despite his great size, her attacker was no match for the stranger’s skill and strength.
It was clear he had no chance against this new warrior.
She staggered away just as her attacker tumbled to the deck, blood spreading in a dark pool, joining the stream caused by the torrents of rain.
She looked up, heart hammering, catching sight of the owner of the voice.
He stood over the fallen raider, chest rising with measured breaths, a sword in hand already wet with the storm and battle alike.
His dark hair clung to his brow, he was tall and broad, and she caught a glimpse of a stern and angular profile.
Clad in a sodden tartan kilt he looked every inch the Highland warrior that she had once believed only existed in exaggerated tales.
“I am at yer service me lady,” came the same rich tones as before, calm and unruffled despite the carnage surrounding them.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The storm raged between them, rain running down Selene’s face like tears. She had never witnessed such violence at such close range, not even on the roughest Highland roads.
When he stepped toward her, instinct shifted her backward. Her boots slid on the slick deck, but she managed to put distance between.
Her rescuer paused in his advance.
“There’s nay cause for fear.” His voice was raw but steady. “I’m nae a man tae harm a woman.”
Trembling, Selene swallowed hard, working to still her ragged breathing. “What you did…” She glanced at the prone form lying on the deck before her. “… was brutal.”
Something like a grim smile tugged at his mouth. “Aye, lass. I’ve ne’er claimed I’m nae a brute, yet I believe ye owe me yer life.”
The deck swayed beneath her, tilting so sharply she had to brace a hand against the nearest beam.
Voices shouted around them in a torrent of Gaelic she could not understand.
More men in dark tartan poured across the deck, their shields bearing a Highland crest she did not recognise depicting an armored hand holding a cross with the words ‘Per mare per terras’.
Her knowledge of Latin told her it meant ‘By sea and by land’.
She searched her memory. Was that not the crest of the MacDonald Clan?
Armed, soaked, powerful, a formation of burly Highlanders drew up to surround her like a second storm.
Her rescuer lifted a hand to keep his men at bay, granting her a measure of space. But his eyes never left hers.
A ripple of something hot and warm rippled through her as their eyes met.
She straightened her spine. That wild man would not see her weak and vulnerable.
For all that, she could scarce keep her gaze from roaming the breadth of his shoulders and his strong arms as he stood tall before her, a half-smile on his lips.
He was a man like no other she’d clapped eyes on in all her travels. Or, for that matter, at any time during her calm and ladylike days in Hertfordshire.
“Who are ye?” he asked, “and why daes yer ship bear nay colors?”
She tried to answer, but the words caught in her throat.
A broad-shouldered Highlander with storm-grey eyes, the man’s second-in-command if she had to guess, stepped forward.
“A birlinn without colors draws suspicions,” he said plainly.
Frowning deeply, he turned toward his companion.
“Think on it, me laird. I’ve heard rumors that, since the rebellion, King George will confiscate the lands of any clan if he hears of conflict.
There are many spies among us, itching fer the king’s favor tae claim our lands.
” He turned his gaze momentarily to Selene.
“With the unrest all through the Sound of Sleat and trouble between our traders and fishermen and the men of Raasay, she could be an English spy. Someone sent in the king’s pay ready tae make trouble fer us. ”
Selene stiffened. “A spy?”
Her rescuer’s gaze hardened as he turned to her. “Aye. Ye need tae prove me wrong, lass. Ye’re English, sailing on a birlinn bearing nay flag. Why should we believe yer story?”
She drew herself as tall as she could and straightened her shoulders. “I am Lady Selene Montgomery, and who might you be, sir, to accuse me in such a reckless manner.”
“I am Callum MacDonald, first sword to the Laird MacDonald of Sleat.” His tone shifted, as recognition dawned in on Selene. “Mayhap ye’ve already heard of me laird?”
Her blood chilled. “Laird Kenneth MacDonald? The Brute of Sleat?” she whispered before she could stop herself.
Laird Kenneth’s jaw flexed and he flinched as if the mention of the title struck him like a thrown stone.
Selene clutched the small silver and pearl necklace at her throat – her mother’s, worn thin by years of her touch – and struggled to draw breath against the rising panic constricting her chest.
“You’re correct. I am English. But I… I’m not a spy,” she managed. “I’m travelling to the Isle of Raasay, to meet with the Lady Elsie, my sister. She is married to Halvard MacLeod, Laird of Raasay. We carried a message from him to you, Laird MacDonald, but—”
Kenneth listened to her words and nodded. “Where is this message ye speak of?”
She shook her head. As far as she could recall it was Jake MacLeod who had carried her brother-in-law’s sealed message. “I don’t know where it is. Mayhap if you search—”
Kenneth interrupted her, turning to his advisor. “Tell the men tae search fer evidence that will prove ae me this lass is who she claims tae be.”
Selene glanced down – and immediately wished she had not done so.
Bodies. Too many. Strewn across the planks like broken dolls were all that remained of Halvard’s loyal soldiers.
She shuddered catching sight of Jake MacLeod’s prone form among them.
Hot tears sprang into her eyes. These were men she had travelled beside for weeks, shared meals with, spoken and laughed with, grown fond of, despite the hardships of their journey.
A nauseating wave of grief washed through her and she bowed her head.
Several MacDonald warriors searched the bodies scattered across the deck, roughly turning each one.
Then one man paused and held something up to the torchlight.
It was a torn fragment of parchment, still bearing its wax seal stamped with Halvard’s crest. Selene felt a rush of despair. The note was gone.
Murmurs rippled through the watching men and she heard the word “Raasay” uttered more than once.
“See. I speak the truth,” she cried urgently. “You must believe me. I am no spy. That is a scrap of the legal parchment that was to be delivered. We were bound to Duntulm Castle to present it to you, sir.” She glanced at Kenneth, her eyes silently imploring him to believe her tale.
Her voice was drowned out by a terrible groan from the hull as a massive wave struck the ship broadside.
The entire vessel shuddered violently, pitching men against masts and railings.
Ropes whipped through the air. Shouts rose anew as the MacDonald warriors scrambled to secure their lines and prepare for transfer back to their own birlinn.
Selene flung out her arms in a bid to maintain her balance as the birlinn tipped alarmingly.
“Come,” Kenneth said, reaching for her arm as gently as the storm allowed. “You cannae stay aboard. Our birlinn rides steadier. I’ll see ye safe.”
She let him guide her, stepping over coils of rope and slippery planks as his men hastened to throw a boarding plank between the two ships. The wind screamed through the rigging. Rain hammered against her hood.
Just a few paces more.
Heart in her mouth, shaking all over, she went to step across the plank. At that very moment a monstrous wave caught the birlinn, raising it and slamming it down.
A violent, wrenching motion tore through the deck. The plank rolled into the deep. Selene’s foot slipped and her hand flew out clutching at the railing. To her horror the timber splintered beneath her grasp, causing her to lose her balance entirely.
Pitching forward, her feet went from under her and she uttered a desperate cry which was swallowed instantly by the storm. She flew forward, over the shattered rail and into the furious, churning sea below.
When she struck the water, it felt as if she was plunging into a wall of ice.
Cold seized her lungs. Her cloak dragged her under almost at once. The world above vanished into a blur of grey as the brutal, unforgiving current seized her, wrapping around her like cruel hands, drawing her inexorably into the depths.
Selene tried to kick upward, but the weight of her sodden clothing pulled her deeper still.
The storm’s roar dulled beneath the surface, replaced by a low, muffled boom that vibrated through her bones.
She struggled, bringing all her strength to bear, her hands reaching hopelessly for the surface – straining for air, for light, for anything. As the blackness claimed her, she became dimly aware of her face being pressed against rough fabric, and strong hands on her waist.
Then she knew nothing else as the dark, icy Sea of the Hebrides swallowed her whole.